


c'mon, baby girl

by ineachandeveryway



Series: some kind of perfect [1]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7121485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineachandeveryway/pseuds/ineachandeveryway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If it's any consolation, sweetheart, I call you 'baby' in my dreams." </p><p>—or, Nate/Elena + baby talk, both literally and figuratively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	c'mon, baby girl

**Author's Note:**

> To quote Elena, this is unabashedly a "fluff piece". I'm sorry, it wandered out of my hands. 
> 
> Of course, spoilers for Uncharted 4 follow below.

For every ridiculous reaction or unannounced panic that Elena experiences in the middle of her pregnancy, she has one, very solid excuse: "I've never been pregnant before."

Nate teases her to no end about how easily she'll blame anything on the lack of previous motherhood; for instance, her incessant worrying about whether she'll be able to tell if their kid's cries mean it needs a diaper change, feeding, burp session, or all of the above. Or, as has been quite a constant in the last few months, her ever-present concern that she'll fail as a parent. 

Out of the two, Elena is definitely the more high strung, and not just because of her chemical imbalance. Her responsibilities in life have amounted to paying taxes on time, keeping an eye on her husband, and meeting the deadlines for her show. Nurturing a new, human life is a frighteningly foreign concept, and one that daunts her more so given the facts that a) she was the youngest in her family, and b) Nate has apparently interacted with more babies than she has. 

"When I got into trouble, at the orphanage," he told her recently, "they'd make me play babysitter in the nursery. And we got a lot of drop-offs, y'know? From teen moms and the like. I can't even count how many babies I had to feed." Nate smiled at her, a laugh leaning on the edge of his voice. Ever since they'd returned from Libertalia, he'd been more and more at ease with his memories of that faraway time. Elena knew almost as much about his childhood as he did her own. It turned out a neglectful parent was something they both had in common, and by way of mortal circumstance, too. Where Nate's father barreled into depression shortly following his wife's death, Elena's burrowed into solitude after losing her brother to a car accident. The memories weren't pretty, but they were convenient reminders of what neither of them wanted to be. 

Although, at this rate, Elena isn't so sure she can say she's winning against the odds. 

Four and a half months has her more frazzled than ever. While Nate gives most of his time to their excavations—she works more behind the scenes nowadays—Elena reads up on as many parenting guides as she can. Her knowledge in comparison to her husband's isn't too terribly lacking, but if the baby is going to be more reactive to his practiced ways as it stands, then she at least wants to be capable of some sort of meaningful contribution. 

And her first one? A prayer. 

Elena is by no means partial to either end of the gender spectrum, but it rakes at her to think that Nate might fit the everyman archetype when it comes to being a father. Of course, she's not saying that he's Gaston, parading around with the "strapping boys" rhetoric. That would be too exaggerated of an assumption, as well as an insulting parallel to make. 

He  _is,_ however, a man of adventure, and God knows that most men of that description aren't looking to pop out girls. The stereotype is an unfortunate but mostly true one. If not for her abundance of apprehension already, Elena would try and disprove that it has a theoretical hold on her husband. 

But as it stands, she's got no shortage of nerves on her body, so a simple prayer is what has to do. Every night, she turns her head into her pillow and mutters, "God, I love my husband more than anyone else in the world, believe me. But I'd  _really_ like a girl, so try to make it happen, okay?" 

"What are you whispering about?" Nate asks this night, surprising Elena only because it's taken him this long to catch wind of her murmurs. 

"Oh, nothing," she answers. "Just praying." 

Nate holds back a scoff. (He's very mindful of her mood swings, and that fact is an unspoken power.) "Since when do you pray?" 

"Since you put this  _thing_ into my goddamn body." Elena nearly laughs at herself for saying such a thing. She and Nate have unfortunately developed an affection for Sully's favorite piece of vocabulary and try to insert it into their conversations as much as they can. Though her husband tends to be guilty of this more often than her, every now and then she'll let a 'goddamn' slip, too. 

"Don't call it a 'thing'," he says, and her lips quirk in curiosity. She wasn't expecting him to say that. 

Nate looks down at the stack of papers resting in his lap, each one detailing a different location that could possibly be made into the focus of their next episode. It doesn't take long for him to move them away and roll onto his side, so that he's facing her directly. As much as her husband loves his work, he loves his conversations with his wife even more. The look in his eyes is soft and hesitant, and Elena realizes they're about to delve into something deep.

"What should I call it then?" she asks. 

"I dunno, just. Anything but that." His eyes are on her, but he's doing that thing where they're unfocused and centered on anything else but her  _own_ eyes, and the thought that he's unsure of whether to push forward already has her driven crazy. 

"So you don't want it to be a 'he'?" she asks, shrugging off her early anxiety over such conversation in light of Nate's inciting attitude. 

"What?" 

"Sorry, allow me to clarify." Elena clears her throat. "I said, so you don't want it to be a 'he'?" 

"I know what you said," Nate retorts. "I just— I don't  _get_ what you said." 

"Oh, come on." If Elena weren't so impressed with Nate's heightened intuition—it's clear that he's sensed the dangers of discussing their baby's gender—she might put more of a bite into the words. "Don't tell me you haven't at least thought about what gender it might be?" 

The blank look on his face then is unexpected, too. It throws her whole game off-kilter, and she hasn't really even started. "No," he answers honestly, "not really." 

"You're not the slightest bit curious?" 

Nate shifts his gaze and bites his lip. This is uncharted territory they're venturing into, and he's not yet sure how to play the field. A pointed look from Elena finally coaxes him to an answer: ". . . No." 

"Wow, um. Okay." Elena turns on her side, closes her eyes, and makes an effort at reiterating her prayer, but not before Nate takes her by the shoulder and pulls her tenderly back to face him. She can tell that he's still very lost as to what to do, but he makes the right move in cupping one hand to her cheek and running his thumb under her eye. Nate tangles his legs with hers near the foot of the bed, then fumbles for the right words to say. 

"I mean, does it really matter what the gender is?" he asks softly, finally looking into her eyes, just to make sure he hasn't put her off again or anything. Elena does her best not to let her true feelings show, though the effort hurts more than helps. Her face twists a little, and Nate smooths out the crinkles with his thumb before continuing gently, "It's ours, right? Half of you, half of me. I'm just saying that that's all that should matter." 

It's such an uncanny thing for him to be this philosophical and poignant, but Elena finds that she could care less for the way her heart trills in her chest. The look that seamlessly washes over her face is one that she knows he's familiar with: he's seen it in the glimmer of her eyes on a boat off the coast of Panama; he's seen it in the rise of her cheeks on a cliff overlooking all of Nepal; he's seen it in the stretch of her lips on an airstrip near the Yemen border; and he's seen it in a blend of all of the above on the ruins of a Madagascar civilization. 

This look? It says,  _I'm falling in love with Nathan Drake._ _(All over again.)_

"You're stupid, you know that?  _Really_ stupid." 

Elena giggles into Nate's mouth as he leans over, her laughter, coupled with his, shaping the kiss's center. They're a sappy pair, and have been told so on more than one occasion by Sully and Sam, although unfortunately for their family, not one thing in this world can keep Nate from dissolving into the slant of his wife's lips or Elena from reveling in the stubble lining her husband's skin. Audacious escapades tinted by ravings over endless treasure certainly have something on the physical relationship; but the love is eternally untouched, rendered permanent in the scars that have made their mark in hot blood. She's pretty sure it's why they've gotten this far. 

"Seriously, though," Elena asks once they've pulled apart, and Nate can't help but sigh, "you don't have  _any_ inclinations as to what our baby might be?" 

"None whatsoever," he answers. He starts to lean in again, but Elena presses a finger to his lips and provokes a frustrated groan. 

"You've at least got to want something, right? Like, you don't know what it's going to be, but you know what you want it to be." 

Nate stares in exasperation at his wife for a moment or two before finally relenting to her question. "Fine," he says, "a girl." 

Elena blinks in surprise. The answer is genuine; she knows because he's not stammering over useless filler words, like he happened to do when he called her from Madagascar all those ages ago. An amalgam of relief and curiosity settles over her, and she smiles incredibly wide. 

"Really?" 

"Really." 

"Okay, why?" 

Nate's turn to smile. The ex-thief shifts onto his back, as if he's trying to look at the ceiling in contemplation. He carries one of her hands with him and centers it over his heart, then looks at her in amusement out of the corner of his eye. "Well, for one thing," he begins, " _you're_ a girl, and you're goddamn incredible." 

She's pleased with the compliment. It immediately renders her 'everyman archetype' theory invalid, as well as her need for prayers every night. (Grounded though she is, Elena's religious foundations are much fainter than her husband's. Probably because she wasn't raised Catholic, but that's arguable in its own right.)

"And for another?" she prompts, more interested in his thoughts than ever. 

"More pet names," Nate states. "Boys are great, but I'd like to have the opportunity to say more than just 'son'."

"Oh, so 'honey' isn't enough for you?" 

Nate lifts his eyebrows in surprise, grins devilishly. "Are you saying you're jealous?" 

"Oh, _please,_ as if." If there's anything Elena would hate, it would be for her husband to use legitimate pet names while he flirts with her. She's a big fan of 'honey'; it's short and sweet, and his voice around the word always manages to stand out. It's the voice he saves for moments like these, when all that exists are their bodies and the sheets underneath. 

"Well, if it's any consolation, sweetheart"—he reaches over to get the lights, then turns back and draws incredibly close to her ear—"I call you 'baby' in my dreams." 

The laughter that runs up her throat is so goddamn obnoxious, and she giggles hysterically while Nate slobbers kisses into the hollow of her neck. His arms are running up and down her back, fingers skirting the sides of her belly as her shirt rides up. "And in your nightmares?" she gasps, lips parting wide 

Nate takes a moment to burrow deep into her skin, his lips pressing flat and moist against her clavicle. Elena knows that in most cases, a father will be more tender with his wife when she's pregnant, but she doesn't think that's ever been the case with her and Nate. His affection for her is a constant, expressed in all sorts of mannerisms that she's grown to be equally fond of. (Although, if she really had to pick and choose, she likes best the kisses he saves for Sunday mornings, when she's perched on the counter top.)

"Treasure," he murmurs finally, his voice gravelly. 

And Elena can determine, in that moment, that whatever their child turns out to be, there's no doubt it will have one of the world's greatest men for a father, and maybe a goddamn incredible journalist for a mother, too. They're inexperienced and wild, but what practice can't give them in the world of parenthood, love definitely can. In fact, she can already picture it—Nate mapping out constellations on the ceiling while the rock of her arms lulls their baby to sleep. It's a fairly tame picture, but Elena thinks that they've managed to balance adventure and domesticity quite well in recent months. She's sure that the baby will warm to it, too. 

"So what exactly are these pet names going to do for you?" she asks, melding into the fit of his arms around her body. 

"Oh, you know, the basic stuff," he answers, and he sports a wide grin, "I'm gonna embarrass the shit outta my kid if it kills me." 

Elena pinches her nose. "You're terrible." 

"You say that now, but wait 'til she's calling me 'Daddy' first." Nate frowns in distaste almost as soon as he says it; he's certainly behind on the times, but a meme will make itself so prominent every now and then that it'll be hard for him to ignore. "Shit," he mutters, "that came out wrong." 

"Yeah, no kidding." 

His fingers graze the curve of her shoulder, and then he turns to her, eyes narrowed in teasing accusation. "Now that I think about it, you don't call me anything, do you?" 

"Um. . . No." Elena shakes with laughter, a sheepish grin raising her lips while a disbelieving scoff parts Nate's. He tries to feign hurt but only ends up pulling her further into his hold, her face tucked completely into his neck so that she might breathe in the Old Spice scenting his skin. "I have my reasons," she defends. 

"Oh, yeah?" 

"Yeah." She pulls back for a moment and looks him in the eye; the grass green color of his irises takes her back to a time when all that mattered were her right hooks and his dashing grins. From Panama to Florida, they are eight years in the making, and she thinks they've done a good job, aggravating road bumps aside. Where twenty four was nothing short of wild to her, thirty two is pleasurable, maybe even invigorating. Elena's lips hover at a point right over his as she holds either side of his face with her hands. "I like the sound of your name in my mouth," she confesses, too happy to care that the statement is like something out of a romance novel. "It's cute."

Nate quirks his lips into a grin. "I am actually not offended by that," he mumbles. 

"Oh, you better not be, Mr. Drake. I just served out my heart on a platter to you." She sticks a finger to his chest. "There's no knowing if you'll ever see such a spect—"

There's a blissful sort of silence that settles into the room. Nate whispers into her mouth, "Shut up, already." 

". . . Our kid's gonna hate us." 

"Yeah, but. . .  _Kissing._ " 

"Y'know, I think. . .  _I_ hate you." 

"You  _love_ me." 

"Mm. . . Whatever." 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, please! I'd love to know what you think of my sappy garbage. ;)


End file.
